


Selenographia, sive Lunae descriptio

by pengiesama



Category: Guardians of Childhood - William Joyce, Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Angst, Canon - Book & Movie Combination, Gen, Introspection, Outer Space
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-14
Updated: 2013-04-14
Packaged: 2017-12-08 10:21:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/760276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pengiesama/pseuds/pengiesama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He is forever watching the blue planet, forever circling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Selenographia, sive Lunae descriptio

“SYSTEM RESTORE COMPLETE. MOONBOT L-4898 REPORTING. LONG LIVE TSAR LUNAR.  LONG LIVE TSARITSA LUNAR. LONG LIVE OUR TSESAREVICH. LONG LIVE OUR GUIDING BEACON NIGHTLIGHT. LONG MAY THEY GLINT THROUGH THE SEA OF STARS. I AM IN THE SERVICE OF THE LUNAOFF FAMILY, BENEVOLENT RULERS, TASKED IN THE SERVICE OF PROVIDING DREAMS AND OTHER NIGHT-TIME SUNDRIES…”

Robots, after all, were simply a collection of moving gears. From time to time, when their systems failed beyond hope, a wipe back to the factory standard was inevitable. Connecting them to the Clipper’s master computer would bring them up to date on the events of the last four-point-five billion years.

MiM used to sit them down, each time, to tell them individually – his parents, dead. His Nightlight, presumed the same. Their tsesarevich, now tsar, but of nothing but the shattered and decayed husk of their once-beautiful craft. Their Golden Age, gone. So, so far gone.

He had grown so weary of telling the tale.

This sort of thing was inevitable, yes, but L-4898…the dear, creaky old thing had been with him from the start. Unable to take part in the great battle against the Nightmare Galleon (perpetually stuck gear in his left ankle, he’d told MiM, countless times), he’d stood guard at the door to his cradle at Nightlight’s command. He’d tell him stories, stories that were lost in the fog of ages, of the great starships (“‘TOOT TOOT’, YOU WOULD CALL TO THEM, YOUNG MIM.”), of the way his parents looked at each other while at the helm of the craft (“THEY SAY MACHINES DON’T UNDERSTAND LOVE; WELL, WE UNDERSTAND ENOUGH.”), of the way his Nightlight would lean out the window of his room while he slept to try and catch stardust in his hands (“HE ONCE FELL OUT THE WINDOW. HAD TO TURN THE WHOLE CRAFT AROUND TO LOOK FOR HIM. FOUND HIM BEING CHASED BY A SCHOOL OF STARFISH. I PRESUME THEY THOUGHT HE WAS AN ESPECIALLY LARGE AND DELICIOUS GLOW-WORM.”). All the moonbots were once able to regale him such, but after so many resets, after so many years…

MiM plugs L-4898 into the master computer, watches his metal body slack to receive the data. It was foolish of him to think that L-4898, even, would be immune. This sort of thing could take a while; perhaps it would be best to take a stroll down to the observatory. Perhaps a balloon or two had arrived, to take his mind off things.

Moonmice, lunar moths – they were born and lived and bred and died. Loving, but brief, companions. Moonbots were built to serve a billion years and more, but of course, it was the “and more” that was the issue, at this point.

MiM was quite sure his father would have saved the warranty on their purchase, but certainly their manufacturer would not be available for complaint. Eaten alive by fearlings, thrown with the rest of his planet into a black hole or supernova. Perhaps simply out of business.

Four-point-five billion years of life, and the tattered rags of memory of the gleaming Golden Age before, all for him, and him alone, to bear.

-

He is forever watching the blue planet, forever circling. Through his telescopes, he sees how it grows, has seen great reptiles rule and die, has seen the humans creep from their caves and campfires to build towns, cities. They live, invent, dream – it is unlike the Golden Age that he dimly remembers, but is comfort unspeakable. Comfort unbearable. He watches and circles, unable to even speak with those who bring him such joy; after all, it would take a strong voice indeed to make oneself heard on a satellite approximately two-hundred-thirty-eight thousand, nine-hundred miles away.

He relies on the flow of dreamsand to make himself heard. The converters at the heart of the craft that turn stardust to dreamsand still hum like new, through careful maintenance – dreams and other night-time sundries, his family’s legacy, if he let this die where would he then be? Rivers of dreamsand flow on the lunar wind, drifting lazily to Earth. Whisper a word into it to make yourself heard by its lucky recipient.

By this, he has made himself known before.

A whisper, and a mother bear dreams of a human baby left to die of exposure during harsh famine. _Do not blame the child’s mother. She is poor, and starving, and still a child herself._ The words are as much for him as they are for the mother bear. The baby is found, and grows, and brings order to a band of outlaws to go on wondrous adventures across the plains.

A whisper, the weeping heart of an orphaned girl is soothed. _I know it hurts. I miss mine too. They are with them, immortalized in the constellations, watching over you. Please live on, the children love you so, do not let your heart grow cold. Your wings are so very beautiful._ The nightmares of her parents’ deaths are replaced with sweet memories.

A whisper, and the creature at the center of the earth hears it very clearly with his great ears. _You are alone, like me? The fearlings destroyed my race, as well. Your robots are so splendidly crafted. Please accept this dream, I have included a few designs, if you care to build them._ The next day, he sees the creature creep from one of its burrows to the surface, a blueprint design stuffed into his paw, to peer at the sky quizzically.

A whisper, oh, and this one knows dreamsand, and hears it well. _Friend, do you remember me? I remember seeing your craft spiraling down to the surface from my cradle. Sleep well, you’ve earned your rest, perhaps someday we can combine our talents? I shan’t talk business until you’re ready. Be careful, there is a kraken approaching starboard._ With this advance warning, the mermaids make short work of it, and feast for days.

A whisper, and the words come unbidden, and the dreamsand shivers and shimmers and flows from MiM’s heart to a boy’s dying dream.

_Live. Live. I saw. I saw everything. You are full of light and joy and laughter and are so very much like a friend from so very long ago. Sacrificed himself for a child powerless to do anything to help. I cannot bear to see him die again before my eyes._

The dreamsand freezes the last breath within the drowned boy’s lungs, and his hair silvers moon-white and eyes bloom midnight-blue. Soaring through the air with his newfound powers, laughing with delight, the pale, thin ghost of Nightlight in his every movement.

Soon, he too knows the pain of loneliness, of only being able to interact through blind flails of desperate magic. He stares at MiM with sorrowful, borrowed eyes, and the guilt is enough for MiM to hide in silent shame. MiM knows that look. He has seen it in the windows, reflected, as he gazes at his parents’ constellation.

_What did you think you were doing, reviving him, painting him with those colors?_

_It has been four-point-five billion years. Nightlight is gone._

_Young one, I am sorry, please don’t lose hope. I meant for none of this to fall on you._

The whispers remain as letters that MiM is too ashamed to send.

_Forgive me, mother, father. Your son is a coward and a fool._

-

“L-4898 REPORTING.”

“Yes, at ease. Please, do have a seat. The gear in your ankle?”

“SITTING AS COMMANDED. ANKLE GEAR REMAINS STUCK.”

MiM dutifully sets to work with wrench and screwdriver. After a fashion, a question springs to mind.

“Tell me, L-4898. With this wealth of dreamsand, can even moonbots dream?”

“OF ELECTRIC SHEEP, MOSTLY. AND…” Steam puffed from L-4898’s ear-holes. “CERTAIN THINGS THAT ARE INAPPROPRIATE FOR OUR YOUNG’S TSESAREVICH EARS.”

MiM slants L-4898 a look. “The young tsesarevich is four-point-five billion years old.”

“THE YOUNG TSESAREVICH IS STILL YOUNGER THAN L-4898.”

MiM smiles. The comment is comforting, somehow. He did feel so very old, these days.

“Your point taken.”


End file.
